“Katie, I wish you would not speak to her, she’s a cat!” cried Joanna, with intense disgust, turning her back upon her sister; “oh I wish you would write Cosmo to come and see me! I’ll be just the same as at college, too; and I’m sure I’ll like him a great deal better than any of the girls. Or, never mind; if that’s not right, I’ll be sure to meet him in the street. I’m to go next week, Katie, and there’s a French governess and a German master, and an Italian master, and nothing but vexation and trouble. It’s quite true, and we’re not even to speak our own tongue, but jabber away at French from morning to night. English is far better--I know I’ll quarrel with them a’.” “Do you call your language English, Joanna?” said her sister, with contempt. “If it’s no’ English it’s Scotch, and that’s far better,” cried Joanna, with an angry blush; “wha cares for English? They never say their r’s and their h’s, except when they shouldna say them, and they never win the day except by guile, and they canna do a thing out of their own head till Scotsmen show them how! and it’s a’ true, and I’d rather be a servant-maid in Melmar, than one of your Clapham fine ladies, so you needna speak your English either to Katie or me.” And it must be confessed that Katie, sensible as she was, laughed and applauded, and that poor little Patricia, who could find nothing heroical to say on behalf of Clapham, was very much disposed to cry with vexation, and only covered her defeat by a retreat to the carriage, where Joanna followed, only after a few minutes’ additional conversation with Katie, who was by no means disposed to aid the elder sister. When they were gone, however, Katie Logan shook her wise little elder-sisterly head over the pair of them. She thought if Charlie (which diminutive in the manse meant Charlotte) and Isabel grew up like Patricia and Joanna, she would “break her heart;” and the little mistress of the manse went into the kitchen to oversee the progress of a birthday cake and give her homely orders, without once thinking of the superior grandeur of the carriage, as it rolled down the slope of the brae and through the village, the scene of a continued and not very temperate quarrel between the two daughters of Melmar, which was only finished at last by the sudden giving way of Patricia’s nerves and breath, to the most uncomfortable triumph of Joanna. Joanna kept sulkily in her corner, and refused to alight while the other calls were made. On the whole, it was not a very delightful drive. CHAPTER XXXI.